certainly paid for anything we needed.
Like my brothers, I was not born with a social conscience. We gave offerings to the church because the Bible strongly suggests it. We paid taxes to the government because the law requires it. Surely, somewhere in the midst of all this giving some good would be done, and we had a hand in it. Politics belonged to those willing to play that game, and besides, there was no money to be made by honest people. We were taught to be productive, and the more success we attained, the more society would benefit, in some way. Set goals, work hard, play fair, achieve prosperity.
He double-bogeyed the fifth hole, and was blaming it on his putter when he climbed into the cart. 'Maybe I'm not looking for greener pastures,' I said. 'Why don't you just go ahead and say what you're trying to say?' he said. As usual, I felt weak for not facing the issue boldly.
'I'm thinking about public interest law.'
'What the hell is that?'
'It's when you work for the good of society without making a lot of money.'
'What are you, a Democrat now? You've been in Washington too long.'
'There are lots of Republicans in Washington. In fact, they've taken over.'
We rode to the next tee in silence. He was a good golfer, but his shots were getting worse. I'd broken his concentration.
Stomping through the rough again, he said, 'So some wino gets his head blown off and you gotta change society. Is that it?'
'He wasn't a wino. He fought in Vietnam.'
Dad flew B-52's in the early years of Vietnam, and this stopped him cold. But only for a second. He wasn't about to yield an inch. 'One of those, huh?'
I didn't respond. The ball was hopelessly lost, and he wasn't really looking. He flipped another onto the fairway, hooked it badly, and away we went.
'I hate to see you blow a good career, son,' he said. 'You've worked too hard. You'll be a partner in a few years.'
'Maybe.'
'You need some time off, that's all.'
That seemed to be everybody's remedy.
* * *
I took them to dinner at a nice restaurant. We worked hard to avoid the topics of Claire, my career, and the grandkids they seldom saw. We talked about old friends and old neighborhoods. I caught up on the gossip, none of which interested me in the least.
I left them at noon on Friday, four hours before my flight, and I headed back to my muddled life in D.C.
Seven
Of course, the apartment was empty when I returned Friday night, but with a new twist. There was a note on the kitchen counter. Following my cue, Claire had gone home to Providence for a couple of days. No reason was given. She asked me to phone when I got home.
I called her parents' and interrupted dinner. I labored through a five-minute chat in which it was determined that both of us were indeed fine, Memphis was fine and so was Providence, the families were fine, and she would return sometime Sunday afternoon.
I hung up, fixed coffee, and drank a cup staring out the bedroom window, watching the traffic crawl along P Street, still covered with snow. If any of the snow had melted, it wasn't obvious.
I suspected Claire was telling her parents the same dismal story I had burdened mine with. It was sad and odd and yet somehow not surprising that we were being honest with our families before we faced the truth ourselves. I was fired of it and determined that one day very soon, perhaps as early as Sunday, we would sit somewhere, probably at the kitchen table, and confront reality. We would lay bare our feelings and fears and, I was quite sure, start planning our separate futures. I knew she wanted out, I just didn't know how badly.
I practiced the words I would say to her out loud until they sounded convincing, then I went for a long walk. It was ten degrees with a sharp wind, and the chill cut through my trench coat. I passed the handsome homes and cozy rowhouses, where I saw real families eating and laughing and enjoying the warmth, and moved onto M Street, where throngs of those suffering from cabin fever filled the sidewalks. Even a freezing Friday night on M was never dull; the bars were packed, the restaurants had waiting lines, the coffee shops were filled.
I stood at the window of a music club, listening to the blues with snow packed around my ankles, watching the young couples drink and dance. For the first time in my life, I felt like something other than a young person. I was thirty-two, but in the last seven years I had worked more than most people do in twenty. I was fired, not old but bearing down hard on middle age, and I admitted that I was no longer fresh from college. Those pretty girls in there would never look twice at me now.
I was frozen, and it was snowing again. I bought a sandwich, stuffed it into a pocket, and slogged my way back to the apartment. I fixed a strong drink, and a small fire, and I ate in the semidarkness, very much alone.
In the old days, Claire's absence for the weekend would have given me guilt-free grounds to live at the office. Sitting by the fire, I was repulsed by that thought. Drake and Sweeney would be standing proudly long after I was gone, and the clients and their problems, which had seemed so crucial, would be tended to by other squads of young lawyers. My departure would be a slight bump in the road for the firm, scarcely noticeable. My office would be taken minutes after I walked out.
At some time after nine, the phone rang, jolting me from a long, somber daydream. It was Mordecai Green, speaking loudly into a cell phone. 'Are you busy?' he asked.
'Uh, not exactly. What's going on?'
'It's cold as hell, snowing again, and we're short on manpower. Do you have a few hours to spare?'
'To do what?'
'To work. We really need able bodies down here. The shelters and soup kitchens are packed, and we don't have enough volunteers.'
'I'm not sure I'm qualified.'
'Can you spread peanut butter on bread?'
'I think so.'
'Then you're qualified.'
'Okay, where do I go?'
'We're ten blocks or so from the office. At the intersection of Thirteenth and Euclid, you'll see a yellow church on your right. Ebenezer Christian Fellowship. We're in the basement.'
I scribbled this down, each word getting shakier because Mordecai was calling me into a combat zone. I wanted to ask if I should pack a gun. I wondered if he carried one. But he was black, and I wasn't. What about my car, my prized Lexus?
'Got that?' he growled after a pause.
'Yeah. Be there in twenty minutes,' I said bravely, my heart already pounding.
I changed into jeans, a sweatshirt, and designer hiking boots. I took the credit cards and most of the cash out of my wallet. In the top of a closet, I found an old wool-lined denim jacket, stained with coffee and paint, a relic from law school, and as I modeled it in the mirror I hoped it made me look non-affluent. It did not. If a young actor wore it on the cover of Vanity Fair, a trend would start immediately.
I desperately wanted a bulletproof vest. I was scared, but as I locked the door and stepped into the snow, I was also strangely excited.
* * *
The drive-by shootighs and gang attacks I had expected did not materialize. The weather kept the streets
